by Carl Hiaasen
Rudy Graveline was nothing if not resourceful. He found the Village People tape in the discount bin of an all-night record store across from the University of Miami campus in Coral Gables. He sped home, popped the cassette into the modular sound system, cranked up the woofers, and jogged up the spiral staircase to the bedroom.
Heather said, “Not here.” She took him by the hand and led him downstairs. “The fireplace,” she whispered.
“It’s seventy-eight degrees,” Rudy remarked, kicking off his underwear.
“It’s not the fire,” Heather said, “it’s the marble.”
One of the selling points of the big house was an oversized fireplace constructed of polished Italian marble. Fireplaces were considered a cozy novelty in South Florida, but Rudy had never used his, since he was afraid the expensive black marble would blister in the heat.
Heather crawled in and got on her back. She had the most amazing smile on her face. “Oh, Rudy, it’s so cold.” She lifted her buttocks off the marble and slapped them down; the squeak made her giggle.
Rudy stood there, naked and limp, staring like an idiot. “We could get hurt,” he said. He was thinking of what the marble would do to his elbows and kneecaps.
“Don’t be such a geezer,” Heather said, hoisting her hips and wiggling them in his face. She rolled ever and pointed to the twin smudges of condensation on the black stone. “Look,” she said. “Just like fingerprints.”
“Sort of,” Rudy Graveline mumbled.
She said, “I must be hot, huh?”
“I guess so,” Rudy said. His skull was ready to split; the voices of the Village People reverberated in the fireplace like mortar fire.
“Oh, God,” Heather moaned.
“What is it?” Rudy asked.
“The song. That’s my song.” She squeaked to her knees and seized him ferociously around the waist. “Come on down here,” she said. “Let’s dance.”
IN order to prolong his tumescence, Dr. Rudy Graveline had trained himself to think of anything but sex while he was having sex. Most times he concentrated on his unit trusts and tax shelters, which were complicated enough to keep orgasm at bay for a good ten to fifteen minutes. Tonight, though, he concentrated on something different. Rudy Graveline was thinking of his daunting predicament—of Victoria Barletta and the upcoming television documentary about her death; of Mick Stranahan, still alive and menacing; of Maggie Gonzalez, spending his money somewhere in New York.
More often than not, Rudy found he could ruminate with startling clarity during the throes of sexual intercourse. He had arrived at many crucial life decisions in such moments—the clutter of the day and the pressure from his patients seemed to vanish in a crystal vacuum, a mystic physical void that permitted Rudy to concentrate on his problems in a new light and from a new angle.
And so it was that—even with Heather Chappell clawing his shoulders and screaming disco drivel into his ear, even with the flue vent clanging in the chimney above his head, and even with his knees grinding mercilessly on the cold Italian marble—Rudy was able to focus on the most important crisis of his life. Both pain and pleasure dissipated; it was as if he were alone, alert and sensitized, in a cool dark chamber. Rudy thought about everything that had happened so far, and then about what he must do now. It wasn’t a bad plan. There was, however, one loose end.
Rudy snapped out of his cognitive trance when Heather cried, “Enough already!”
“What?”
“I said you can stop now, okay? This isn’t a damn rodeo.” She was all out of breath. Her chest was slick with sweat.
Rudy quit moving.
“What were you thinking of?” Heather asked.
“Nothing.”
“Did you come?”
“Sure,” Rudy lied.
“You were thinking of some other girl, weren’t you?”
“No, I wasn’t.” Another lie.
He had been thinking of Maggie Gonzalez, and how he should have killed her two months ago.
THE next day at noon, George Graveline arrived at the Whispering Palms surgery clinic and demanded to see his brother, said it was an emergency. When Rudy heard the story, he agreed.
The two men were talking in hushed, worried tones when Chemo showed up an hour later.
“So what’s the big rush?” he said.
“Sit down,” Rudy Graveline told him.
Chemo was dressed in a tan safari outfit, the kind Jim Fowler wore on the Wild Kingdom television show.
Rudy said, “George, this is a friend of mine. He’s working for me on this matter.”
Chemo raised his eyebrows. “Happened to your thumb?” he said to George.
“Car door.” Rudy’s brother did not wish to share that painful detail of his encounter with Mick Stranahan.
George Graveline had a few questions of his own for the tall stranger, but he held them. Valiantly he tried not to stare at Chemo’s complexion, which George assessed as some tragic human strain of Dutch elm disease. What finally drew the tree trimmer’s attention away from Chemo’s face was the colorful Macy’s shopping bag in which Chemo concealed his newly extended left arm.
“Had an accident,” Chemo explained. “I’m only wearing this until I get a customized cover.” He pulled the shopping bag off the Weed Whacker. George Graveline recognized it immediately—the lightweight household model.
“Hey, that thing work?”
“You bet,” Chemo said. He probed under his arm until he found the toggle switch that jolted the Weed Whacker to life. It sounded like a blender without the top on.
George grinned and clapped his hands.
“That’s enough,” Rudy said sharply.
“No, watch,” said Chemo. He ambled to the corner of the office where Rudy kept a beautiful potted rubber plant.
“Oh no,” the doctor said, but it was too late. Gleefully Chemo chopped the rubber plant into slaw.
“Yeah!” said George Graveline.
Rudy leaned over and whispered, “Don’t encourage him. He’s a dangerous fellow.”
Basking in the attention, Chemo left the Weed Whacker unsheathed. He sat down next to the two men and said, “Let’s hear the big news.”
“Mick Stranahan visited George yesterday,” Rudy said. “Apparently the bastard’s not giving up.”
“What’d he say?”
“All kinds of crazy shit,” George said.
Rudy had warned his brother not to tell Chemo about Victoria Barletta or the wood chipper or Stranahan’s specific accusation about what had happened to the body.
Rudy twirled his eyeglasses and said: “I don’t understand why Stranahan is so damn hard to kill.”
“Least we know he’s out of the hospital,” Chemo said brightly. “I’ll get right on it.”
“Not just yet,” Rudy said. He turned to his brother. “George, could I speak to him alone, please?”
George Graveline nodded amiably at Chemo on his way out the door. “Listen, you ever need work,” he said, “I could use you and that, uh . . .”
“Prosthesis,” Chemo said. “Thanks, but I don’t think so.”
When they were alone, Rudy opened the top drawer of his desk and handed Chemo a large brown envelope. Inside the envelope were an eight-by-ten photograph, two thousand dollars in traveler’s checks, and an airline ticket. The person in the picture was a handsome, sharp-featured woman with brown eyes and brown hair; her name was printed in block letters on the back of the photograph. The plane ticket was round-trip, Miami to La Guardia and back.
Chemo said, “Is this what I think it is?”
“Another job,” Dr. Rudy Graveline said.
“It’ll cost you.”
“I’m prepared for that.”
“Same as the Stranahan deal,” Chemo said.
“Twenty treatments? You don’t need twenty more treatments. Your face’ll be done in two months.”
“I’m not talking about dermabrasion,” Chemo said. “I’m talking about my ears.”
Rudy thought: Dear God, will it never end? “Your ears,” he said to Chemo, “are the last things that need surgical attention.”
“The hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, nothing. All I’m saying is, once we finish the dermabrasions you’ll look as good as new. I honestly don’t believe you’ll want to touch a thing, that’s how good your face is going to look.”
Chemo said, “My ears stick out too far and you know it. You want me to do this hit, you’ll fix the damn things.”
“Fine,” Rudy Graveline sighed, “fine.” There was nothing wrong with the man’s ears, only what was between them.
Chemo tucked the envelope into his armpit and bagged up the Weed Whacker. “Oh yeah, one more thing. I’m out of that stuff for my face.”
“What stuff?”
“You know,” Chemo said, “the Wite-Out.”
Rudy Graveline found a small bottle in his desk and tossed it to Chemo, who slipped it into the breast pocket of his Jim Fowler safari jacket. “Call you from New York,” he said.
“Yes,” said Rudy wearily. “By all means.”
CHAPTER 17
CHRISTINA Marks slipped out of the first-class cabin while Reynaldo Flemm was autographing a cocktail napkin for a flight attendant. The flight attendant had mistaken the newly bewigged Reynaldo for David Lee Roth, the rock singer. The Puerto Rican mustache looked odd with all that blond hair, but the flight attendant assumed it was meant as a humorous disguise.
Mick Stranahan was sitting in coach, a stack of outdoors magazines on the seat next to him. He saw Christina coming down the aisle and smiled. “My shadow.”
“I’m not following you,” she said.
“Yes, you are. But that’s all right.” He moved the magazines and motioned her to sit down.
“You look very nice.” It was the first time he had seen her in a dress. “Some coincidence, that you and the anchorman got the same flight as I did.”
Christina said, “He’s not an anchorman. And no, it’s not a coincidence that we’re on the same plane. Ray thinks it is, but it’s not.”
“Ray thinks it is, huh? So this was your idea, following me.”
“Relax,” Christina said. Ever since the shooting she had stayed close; at first she rationalized it as a journalist’s instinct—the Barletta story kept coming back to Stranahan, didn’t it? But then she had found herself sleeping some nights at the hospital, where nothing newsworthy was likely to happen; sitting in the corner and watching him in the hospital bed, long after it was obvious he would make a full recovery. Christina couldn’t deny she was attracted to him, and worried about him. She also had a feeling he was moderately crazy.
Stranahan said, “So you guys are going to trail me all around New York. A regular tag team, you and Ray.”
“Ray will be busy,” Christina said, “on other projects.”
The jetliner dipped slightly, and a shaft of sunlight caught the side of her face, forcing her to look away. For the first time Stranahan noticed a sprinkling of light freckles on her nose and cheeks: cinnamon freckles, the kind that children have.
“Did I ever thank you for saving my life?” he asked.
“Yes, you did.”
“Well, thanks again.” He poured some honey-roasted peanuts into the palm of her hand. “Why are you following me?”
“I’m not,” she said.
“If it’s only to juice up your damn TV show, then I’m going to get angry.”
Christina said, “It’s not that.”
“You want to keep an eye on me.”
“You’re an interesting man. You make things happen.”
Stranahan popped a peanut and said. “That’s a good one.”
Christina Marks softened her tone. “I’ll help you find her.”
“Find who?”
“Maggie Gonzalez.”
“Who said she was lost? Besides, you got her on tape, right? The whole sordid story.”
“Not yet,” Christina admitted.
Stranahan laughed caustically. “Oh brother,” he said.
“Listen, I got a trail of bills she’s been sending up to the office. Between the two of us, we could find her in a day. Besides, I think she’ll talk to me. The whole sordid story, on tape—like you said.”
Stranahan didn’t mention that he already knew where Maggie Gonzalez was staying, and that he was totally confident that he could persuade her to talk.
“You’re the most helpful woman I ever met,” he said to Christina Marks. “So unselfish, too. If I didn’t know better, I’d think maybe you were hunting for Maggie because she beat you and the anchorman out of some serious dough.”
Christina said, “I liked you better unconscious.”
Stranahan chuckled and took her hand. He didn’t let go like she thought he would, he just held it. Once, when the plane hit some turbulence, Christina jumped nervously. Without looking up from his Field & Stream, Stranahan gave her hand a squeeze. It was more comforting than suggestive, but it made Christina flush.
She retreated to the role of professional interviewer. “So,” she said, “tell me about yourself.”
“You first,” Stranahan said; a brief smile, then back to the magazine.
Oddly, she found herself talking—talking so openly that she sounded like one of those video-dating tapes: “Let’s see. I’m thirty-four years old, divorced, born in Richmond, went to the University of Missouri journalism school, lettered on the swim team, graduated magna, got my first decent news job with the ABC affiliate in St. Louis, then three years at WBBM in Chicago until I met Ray at the Gacy trial and he offered me an assistant producer’s job, and here I am. Now it’s your turn, Mick.”
“Pardon?”
“Your turn,” Christina Marks said. “That’s my life story, now let’s hear yours.”
Stranahan closed the magazine and centered it on his lap. He said, “My life story is this: I’ve killed five men, and I’ve been married five times.”
Christina slowly pulled her hand away.
“Which scares you more?” Mick Stranahan said.
WHEN Dade County Commissioner Roberto Pepsical broke the news to The Others (that is, the other crooked commissioners), they all had the same reaction: Nope, sorry, too late.
Dr. Rudy Graveline had offered major bucks to rezone prime green space for the Old Cypress Towers project, and the commissioners had gone ahead and done it. They couldn’t very well put it back on the agenda and reverse the vote—not without arousing the interest of those goddamned newspaper reporters. Besides, a deal was a deal. Furthermore, The Others wanted to know about the promised twenty-five-thousand-dollar bribe: specifically, where was it? Was Rudy holding out? One commissioner even suggested that a new vote to rescind the zoning and scrap the project could be obtained only by doubling the original payoff.
Roberto Pepsical was fairly sure that Dr. Rudy Graveline would not pay twice for essentially the same act of corruption. In addition, Roberto didn’t feel like explaining to the doctor that if Old Cypress Towers were to expire on the drawing board, so would a plethora of other hidden gratuities that would have winged their way into the commissioners’ secret accounts. From downtown bankers to the zoning lawyers to the code inspectors, payoffs traditionally trickled upward to the commissioners. The ripple effect of killing a project as large as Rudy’s was calamitous, bribery-wise.
Roberto hated being the middleman when the stakes got this high. By nature he was slow, inattentive, and somewhat easily confused. He hadn’t taken notes during Rudy’s late-night phone call, and maybe he should have. This much he remembered clearly: The doctor had said that he’d changed his mind about Old Cypress Towers, that he’d decided to move his money out of the country instead. When Roberto protested, the doctor told him there’d been all kinds of trouble, serious trouble—specifically, that hinky old surgical case he’d mentioned that day at lunch. The proverbial doo-doo was getting ready to hit the proverbial fan, Rudy had said; somebody was out to ruin him.
He told Roberto Pepsical to pass along his most profound apologies to The Others, but there was no other course for the doctor to take. Since his problem wasn’t going away, Old Cypress Towers would.
The solution was so obvious that even Roberto grasped it immediately. The apartment project could be rescued, and so could the commissioners’ bribes. Once Roberto learned that Dr. Rudy Graveline’s problem had a name, he began checking with his connections at the Metro-Dade Police Department.
Which led him straight to detectives John Murdock and Joe Salazar.
Roberto considered the mission of such significance that he took the radical step of skipping his normal two-hour lunch to stop by the police station for a personal visit. He found both detectives at their desks. They were eating hot Cuban sandwiches and cleaning their revolvers. It was the first time Roberto had ever seen Gulden’s mustard on a .357.
“You’re sure,” said the commissioner, “that this man is a murder suspect?”
“Yep,” said John Murdock.
“Number one suspect,” added Joe Salazar.
Roberto said, “So you’re going to arrest him?”
“Of course,” Salazar said.
“Eventually,” said Murdock.
“The sooner the better,” Roberto said.
John Murdock glanced at Joe Salazar. Then he looked at Roberto and said, “Commissioner, if you’ve got any information about this man . . .”
“He’s been giving a friend of mine a hard time, that’s all. A good friend of mine.” Roberto knew better than to mention Rudy Graveline’s name, and John Murdock knew better than to ask.
Joe Salazar said, “It’s a crime to threaten a person. Did Stranahan make a threat?”
“Nothing you could prove,” Roberto said. “Look, I’d appreciate it if you guys would keep me posted.”
“Absolutely,” John Murdock promised. He wiped the food off his gun and shoved it back in the shoulder holster.
“This is very important,” Roberto Pepsical said. “Extremely important.”
Murdock said, “Don’t worry, we’ll nail the fuckwad.”
